Food For Thought
by bodiechan
Summary: Aziraphale has rather a penchant for food, a fact which his weight makes very clear. Naturally, he and Famine hate each other. Until one day they don't.


Famine had been frustrated to no end when he first heard news of his relocation, but orders were orders after all. It wasn't officially written anywhere that Death was the leader of the Horsepersons, but none of the others dared to not defer to him. After the rather unfortunate mix-up during the Apocalypse, Death had wanted the other three to stick together for a while, just in case some kind of rain check should arise. As the last Apocalypse had been scheduled for Lower Tadfield, Death had figured England was a good a place as any for the Horsepersons to wait.

And so Famine had grudgingly informed his employees that he was temporarily moving headquarters, lied that he had recently signed a contract to launch a new brand of CHOW all over the UK. He found a new apartment, put Frannie on a plane, and begun starving another nation.

To be honest, Famine was more disappointed than upset. He'd liked America. Everything seemed so easy there. People lapped up diet advice there almost as eagerly as they scarfed down food.

Not to say that there weren't perks to the move, however. Famine was always in favor of things shrinking, certainly, but that didn't mean he would ever object to the expansion of his company. And being in England also meant that he could call up the demon Crowley to do drinks on a regular basis, Crowley being one of the only beings whose company Famine actually enjoyed. Almost always, when Famine called to invite him, Crowley was just as keen on the idea as Famine was.

Until one day when the demon's voice informed the Horseman through the phone, "Nope, sorry. Already have plans with Aziraphale then."

Famine pursed his lips in disapproval. He had instantly disliked the angel from the one or two times they had met, partially because the angel was rather fat and partially because the angel had instantly disliked him.

"Can't you move those plans a few hours?" Famine asked with disdain. "I have meetings the whole rest of the day. I can do noon or nothing."

Crowley was silent for a short moment. Then: "Okay, Aziraphale and I have a lunch date. I know that probably means nothing to you, seeing as you're Famine, but that means we kind of have to do it at least sort of around lunchtime. So no, I can't move it."

Famine ground his teeth at the word. _Lunch._ Of course, knowing the angel, his plans with Crowley _would_ involve food. "Then I guess we won't be seeing each other this week," he said stiffly.

"You could always come, you know."

Famine let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "What, to your _lunch_ date?" He infused as much derision into the short word as possible. "No, thank you. I really have no desire to watch you and your angel stuff yourselves with food your bodies don't even need."

"Okay, first of all, it's just lunch. I don't _stuff_ myself." Crowley made a small, amused sound, and Famine could tell he was smirking. "I can't make any promises for the angel though."

"I'm not coming," Famine said flatly. "I do not get along with food." After a moment he added, "And I don't get along with Aziraphale either."

"Really?" Crowley's tone was sarcastic to an extreme. "I never could have guessed. You two have so much in common."

"He's a fat disgusting pig," Famine observed coldly. "No offense."

"Whoa, okay, I wouldn't go that far." Famine could feel the unpleasant look Crowley was giving him through the phone, even though he was sure Crowley was in sunglasses anyway. "And he's not _that_ fat. It kind of sounds like you two have a lot of issues you need to work out."

"I would prefer that they remain unworked out," Famine replied primly. "Unless by issues you're talking about his weight problem, in which case I would be very happy to intervene."

Crowley actually chuckled at that. "I'd like to see you try. Aziraphale's not going to diet. That'd be like trying to get Pollution to take a bath."

"Then I'm not coming," Famine announced.

"Nope, it's happening." Crowley sounded suddenly determined. "You're coming to lunch with me and Aziraphale tomorrow, and it's not going to end in him starving himself. Fact."

"I'm not going to enjoy myself," Famine complained. "And there is absolutely no way you're getting me to eat anything."

"You don't have to. But you're coming," Crowley prompted. "Trust me, Aziraphale is going to be just as unhappy with this as you are. Just so you know, he kind of hates you."

Famine's lip curled downwards. "Lovely."

—

The waiters at the Ritz were a tad surprised when the usual table had three chairs surrounding it instead of two, but none of them dwelled on it for very long.

Famine's excitement for the entire endeavor did not increase as he caught sight of the pair waiting for him. Crowley was eyeing him expressionlessly, standing protectively close to his angel. And then there was Aziraphale, exactly as the Horseperson recalled him—blonde, middle-aged, badly dressed, and rotund.

Famine was aware that his idea of "fat" didn't exactly line up with the general population's. Ten out of ten humans would have categorized Crowley's body type strictly as slim, but in Famine's opinion Crowley could do with losing a pound… or five. But Aziraphale? Any human would gladly agree that the angel had become disappointingly round. It disgusted Famine, honestly. Aziraphale was an ethereal creature. How could he stand to have let himself go so badly?

As Famine arrived at the table, Aziraphale offered him a very forced smile. "Hello," the angel said, voice slightly strained. "And how have you been?"

"Fine," Famine barked, not even trying to contain his glare.

Aziraphale cast around for anything polite to say. "You're… you're looking well."

Famine scowled. "I'd say you were, too, but then I'd be lying."

"Hey." Crowley put a firm hand on Famine's shoulder: a warning. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

Famine shrugged, and Crowley led him away from a confused Aziraphale to a secluded area of the room. "You have a problem with my conduct already?" Famine asked dryly.

Crowley surveyed him without amusement. "Look, I don't care if you're nice to the angel. I don't care if you like him. I don't care if he likes you. But what I don't want is this whole meal to be you making stupid quips about how he's fat."

"You do that all the time," Famine observed.

Crowley shook his head. "'S different. He knows I don't really care. Teasing him is sort of part of my job. But he's… sensitive. So I'd prefer if you didn't, you know, make him start crying in the middle of the Ritz."

Famine did not look pleased. "You want me to ignore the fact that he's everything I despise."

"I want you to find something else to talk about besides his bloody weight, because to be honest people's weights are all you ever talk about and it gets old pretty fast."

Famine was a bit taken aback by this. "I'm Famine! What else do you want me to talk about?"

"Well, I don't know, but I'm a demon and I don't spend my life rambling on about the fires of Hell." Crowley shrugged and headed back towards their table, where a seated Aziraphale offered him a warm smile. "You'll think of something."

—

When the menus were delivered, Famine refused to even open his, opting instead to lean back in his chair with arms crossed, violently sulking. Predictably, Aziraphale cheerfully ordered what was probably the most fattening thing on the menu. To the Horseperson's surprise, however, Crowley's chosen meal was just as calorie-laden. How did he stay trim if he ate like that on a regular basis?

The answer soon became obvious. Crowley picked at his meal, taking a bite every few minutes while the angel shoveled down his own to the last bite. And then, once Aziraphale had practically licked the plate clean, Crowley pushed his own plate towards him, and the angel proceeded to eat Crowley's food as well.

Famine was repulsed, to say the least. He'd rarely seen such gluttony in humans, and he owned a _diet_ corporation. There was no other word for it—Aziraphale was positively stuffing his face. Famine was appalled. Revolted. And… a bit intrigued.

Because the entire time Aziraphale sat there stuffing his face, he looked absolutely blissful.

Where was the shame that accompanied most humans every time they overate? Where was the dismay, the regret, the guilt that should have lined the angel's features? If Famine ate an _eighth_ of the amount Aziraphale was eating, if he had taken one _bite_ of the angel's meal, he would have felt absolutely dreadful. He would have hated the feeling of being overly full, hated the possibility of gaining weight from it, hated himself for giving into food in the first place.

But Aziraphale seemed quite content to be overeating. More than content—judging by the angel's expression, Famine would have taken a gander that Aziraphale found his meal truly _heavenly_.

Famine didn't understand on any level this kind of behavior, eating happily with no regard whatsoever for one's weight. He couldn't think of a single instance in his own life in which food had brought with it anything but ruin. And yet, here was living proof that for some, food really was a thing to be enjoyed.

The food seemed to put Aziraphale in much better spirits, in general but also in regard to Famine. He actually attempted to include him in friendly conversation, to which the Horseman was so amazed that he felt compelled to reply.

"You run some sort of company, don't you, my dear?"

"Yes. The Newtrition Corporation. I make diet food products, among other things."

"Ah. Well." He could see the disapproval in Aziraphale's eyes, but the angel was much too polite to say so. "Of course you would. How is that going, then?"

"Fine," Famine said. "It's been sort of slow to get started up in this country. But we'll end up doing well. We always do."

Aziraphale nodded, appearing actually interested in what Famine had to say. Another thing the Horseman would never understand. Aziraphale should have taken personal offense at diet products; after all, they existed to prevent people from looking like _him_. But though he disliked the idea, he was kind about it. He was always kind. Famine wasn't used to kindness. Pollution and War weren't exactly well-mannered company, and even Crowley loved to tease in a sarcastic, often insulting way. But as the meal went on, Famine got the feeling that Aziraphale not only cared about what he had to say, but cared about _him_. This was sort of disturbing. Weren't they supposed to hate each other?

Aziraphale finished his meal… meals… soon enough, and the waiter cleared the plates away swiftly, inserting three dessert menus into their hands. Aziraphale looked his over eagerly. Crowley surprised Famine by prodding him in the arm.

"You'd probably better order something," the demon suggested. "You don't have to actually eat it, but the waiter's been giving you dirty looks ever since you turned down lunch."

"Fine," Famine mumbled, and picked up the dessert menu, glancing it over without really reading the words. When the waiter came over he ordered something entirely at random and passed back the menu as if giving someone trash to throw away.

He ignored the plate in front of him completely when it was placed there, and let his eyes wander around the room to find some other distraction. The other two ate their desserts much the same way they'd eaten lunch, Famine observed: Crowley taking far-spaced small bites, so as to save most of it for the angel, and Aziraphale digging in with unmistakable joy.

For a lack of anything better to do, Famine began watching Aziraphale eat in what he hoped was a sort of discrete manner. Watching him lick the fork clean, chew, his jaw moving as he did so… watching his whole face light up in a delighted smile. Amazing.

"Ah, I remember now. Crowley was saying you used to spend most of your time in America, didn't you?"

It took a moment for Famine to realize that Aziraphale was talking to him. He blinked, wondering just how long he'd been staring. The angel had been too focused on his dessert to notice, probably, fortunately. "I—ah—yes. America."

"Did you like it there?" the angel mused, talking with his mouth half full.

Famine nodded. "Nice place, I thought. Good for my purposes."

"Then why come to England, if you don't mind my asking?"

Famine shrugged lightly. "It wasn't my choice. I moved because, well… because Death wanted me to, and you don't argue with Death when he tells you to do something."

Aziraphale nodded sympathetically. "Up There's the same way, my dear. I certainly understand." He took another bite of cake. Famine tried not to look and failed. "But do you mind it, now that you're here? Did having to leave your home make you sad?"

Famine blinked in sudden surprise. No one ever asked him things like this, how he was feeling, if he was _sad_. He was a Horseman of the Apocalypse. All of humanity hated him, and the angels should hate him even more. No one cared if he felt _sad_.

"Yeah," Famine admitted. "Yeah, I guess it did, a little bit."

Aziraphale nodded again, compassion in his eyes. Famine was… well, he wouldn't have said _touched_, but… appreciative, that someone cared.

The angel finished off the last bite of his chocolate cake. He licked the fork clean, and then gave Crowley's plate a very pointed, unmistakable glance. Wordlessly Crowley pushed the plate forward.

Famine had to lift a hand to his mouth to cover his laugh. Aziraphale certainly had Crowley trained. He may have been an angel, he may have been the kindest being Famine had ever met, but Famine was beginning to realize that Aziraphale could be a devious bastard if he could get something he wanted out of the deal. The idea just made Famine like him more.

Aziraphale finished Crowley's dessert quickly, without ceremony. Fork in his mouth, his eyes inevitably ended up resting on the plate in front of Famine. The angel cleared his throat.

"Are you… going to eat that, my dear?"

"Absolutely not." Famine pushed the dessert away from him in disgust. "Do you know how many calories are in this thing? Take it, please. Have fun being a pig."

"I'm not a pig, dear," Aziraphale replied absently, happily accepting Famine's plate. Crowley had said he was sensitive, but he didn't really seem to take offense. "I'm an angel. Thank you very much for the cake."

Crowley snorted. "One of you doesn't eat at all and the other eats everything he can get his hands on. You two should go out together more often. You'd make the prefect team."

Famine laughed slightly at what was obviously intended to be a joke, but Aziraphale cocked his head curiously at the Horseperson, his gaze warm. "Would you like to, my dear?" the angel asked. "I know we have our differences, but I really did enjoy your company today. I'd think I should like to get to know you better."

_Enjoyed my cake more like it,_ Famine couldn't help but think. But what he said was: "Yeah. Yeah. We should… hang out. Sometime."

The angel's eyes lit up as brightly as they had when he was eating. It struck Famine that perhaps Aziraphale's happiness actually did have something to do with being surrounded by people he liked, and not just being surrounded by food. "Yes. We certainly should." He finished off Famine's cake and finally set down his fork, content. "It would be lovely."

—

They did go out together after that. Several times, in fact.

Famine spent all day at work discussing CHOW and dieting and thinness, spent hours surrounded by only the slimmest men and women in England. He spent his free moments in the office worrying constantly over his own appearance, making sure that he didn't gain a single ounce. In that case, it was… refreshing, almost, to finish with a day's work and go out to dinner with Aziraphale, to spend time with this creature who was so much rounder and softer than anyone else he saw, who ate so much more, who was so much happier.

As Crowley said, when it came to eating they were the perfect team. Aziraphale would instruct Famine on what to order, and when the angel was finished with his own meal he would be rewarded with Famine's untouched plate. Crowley always ate at least a little bit of whatever he'd ordered before passing it to the angel. Famine ate none of it. Aziraphale was enjoying himself immensely.

Famine's wonder at Aziraphale's habits persisted, if not increased, the more time they spent together. He was beginning to realize that perhaps a bit of his initial hatred towards the angel had been nothing more than simple jealousy. How could food bring Aziraphale so much pleasure when it gave Famine none? He would love to be able to down a few slices of devil's food cake and be rewarded with happiness for the rest of the day, but all he would get instead would be extraordinary guilt and a stomachache. Aziraphale seemed immune to both.

While the angel ate, they discussed anything and everything, and Famine began to realize that he enjoyed Aziraphale's company just as much as he was intrigued by him. Aziraphale was a fantastic listener. He never got bored when Famine was speaking, never interrupted, was always unbelievably, undoubtedly kind. And he was interesting, too. He was better-read than just about anyone and knew all sorts of things that Famine had never even heard of. Aziraphale seemed to find Famine interesting as well, after spending so long with only Crowley for company; after all, the demon was intelligent but hardly an intellectual. Famine found himself and the angel engaged in conversations on a wide variety of topics. He was so used to talking about starvation that he hadn't realized just how hungry he was for thinking about anything else.

Although twice, the topic of food and weight did come up between them.

On the first occasion, they were strolling through St. James Park together, at Famine's suggestion. By playing the sympathy card, he'd guilted the angel into walking with him sometimes instead of going out to eat—surely the Horseman would enjoy himself more doing something he was actually able to do, and as an angel Aziraphale obviously wanted everyone as happy as possible, so he agreed. Aziraphale had looked positively mortified when Famine had suggested a more strenuous form of exercise, but the Horseman had executively figured anything was better than nothing, so walking it was.

They strolled along a path, Aziraphale humming contentedly to himself. There was no conversation between them, so Famine took to watching Aziraphale instead, as he had grown prone to doing in the past few weeks of their friendship. He watched Aziraphale's face as he hummed, that soft face with its rounded edges, as plump as the rest of his body, and yet it was humming happily. That the weight and the happy humming could simultaneously exist seemed so contrasting and made such confusing chaos of Famine's mind that he suddenly couldn't stop himself from blurting, "You've never even _considered_ it?"

"Hm?" Aziraphale looked up curiously, stopped humming. "I'm sorry, dear. I must have missed part of what were you saying. I've never considered what?"

Famine swallowed. He couldn't really think of a good excuse for having said it in the first place. It wasn't so much relevant now as relevant always, and now he simply couldn't contain it any longer. "You've never even considered… dieting," he said slowly, forcing out the words.

"Ah. That." Famine was by now quite familiar with the Aziraphale's way of expressing his emotions, and though the angel was making a pretty successful attempt to stay cheerful, from the way he pursed his lips at the word _dieting_ it was clear the idea was almost abhorrent to him.

Famine felt oddly embarrassed to have mentioned it. It was the first time they had truly discussed the topic, other than the occasional snarky comment Famine would make about how much Aziraphale had consumed at dinnertime. Aziraphale seemed to take these quips quite well, for the most part, and when he did seem hurt a mumbled apology was all it took to bring him back to smiles. But then, they had never discussed it in detail. Famine wanted the angel to lose weight, certainly—ideally he wanted everyone in the world to lose weight—but he also didn't wish to be rude.

"I mean, surely you must have noticed that you're rather…" Famine cast around for more polite word, couldn't seem to find one, and finally just settled on "…well, fat. Have you never felt any desire to be thin?"

"Not particularly, my dear," Aziraphale countered pleasantly. "I'd much rather be able to eat what I want than be thinner. I don't mind my weight, really, and food is something of a pleasure of mine."

And Famine _knew_ this already. They were going in circles, always were. He should have been frustrated, but instead he just felt lost. Ever since they'd become friends—Was that what they were? Friends?—Famine had been subtly probing and searching, trying to find a weak spot in the angel's seemingly impenetrable defenses when it came to confidence in his weight. The Horseman had come up empty-handed every time, and he honestly couldn't comprehend it. Did Aziraphale _really_ not mind his weight? Impossible. No one could.

"You've never considered dieting for any reason?" Famine asked, desperately trying to make some sense out of the angel in front of him. "Your corporation's health? Aesthetics? _Nothing?_"

Aziraphale appeared to think this over for a moment. Famine held his breath in anticipation, growing more hopeful with every extra second the angel took. If he were going to say no, he wouldn't have to think, would he? Aziraphale looked out at the park's trees, expression slowly becoming solemn. When he spoke, it was in low tones, and Famine internally leapt for joy. "Once."

"Once!" Famine felt giddy at the word. Once. Aziraphale had considered dieting once. That meant he was real after all. Because if Aziraphale really never thought about his weight, Famine figured he must be either lying or too good to be true. "What happened once?"

"Crowley happened," Aziraphale said gently. He chuckled softly, shook his head at himself. "I… at one point may have entertained a silly crush on the old snake. Imagine that."

Well, obviously. Famine had had no doubt that there was something more than friendship between the two. But something struck him about the angel's words: the use of past tense. For some reason, Famine's gut feeling was happiness at the knowledge that the two weren't dating now. "Just at one point?"

Aziraphale nodded matter-of-factly. "At the time I thought perhaps he might feel something for me in return, stop chasing all those silly humans, you know, if I were a bit… thinner. I fancied he might find me more attractive then."

"And?" Famine prompted, honestly intrigued. "And did he?"

Aziraphale looked into Famine's eyes, smiling so sadly. "He certainly noticed I was eating less, and actually expressed his concern, poor dear. He knew I'd been much happier when I was, shall we say, softer, and he was worried that something he'd said had made me think I needed to watch my weight. He wanted to assure me I really was fine the way I had been."

"Which is why he told me you're sensitive," Famine recognized.

Aziraphale nodded again. "I suppose so. I never told him why I was doing it, but I knew by then that the whole thing was pointless. He wanted me to be happy, but he didn't see my looks in that sort of way, no matter what weight I happened to be." He shrugged. "I would only settle for a steady relationship, you know. Crowley is the Tempter of Eden. He doesn't want that kind of a partner, only short little frivolous flings. So in a way, I'm glad he only sees me as a good friend."

Famine watched the angel carefully as he spoke. He seemed fine now, seemed to have moved on, but there was a dim light hiding behind his eyes that could only be a kind of pain. Famine felt suddenly, inexplicably sad.

He couldn't think of much to say, so he nodded silently, and they walked. There was a weight between them now, something in the air. It was serious, but oddly, not unpleasant. It felt vaguely like trust.

"Have you ever been in love?" Aziraphale asked, after a while.

"No," Famine replied automatically, then thought about it some. "Well, not real love, anyway." He vaguely wondered if it was possible for a Horseman to fall in love. The idea depressed him, so he decided to change the subject.

"So you gave up on dieting," Famine remarked, though immediately after saying it, he realized that it was a rather insensitive remark.

Aziraphale nodded absently. "I was only doing it for Crowley's sake, then. I really can't be bothered myself."

"But I don't understand," Famine complained, sounding a bit like a confused child. "_Why _can't you be bothered? Even if you refuse to stop being a pig, shouldn't you at least want to be thinner in _theory_? How could you not care about the way you look at _all_?"

Aziraphale stopped walking abruptly, one eyebrow raised. Famine was forced to stop as well.

"I never said I don't care about my appearance, my dear," Aziraphale replied rather sharply.

"But if you care, you must be unhappy with your weight," Famine insisted pathetically. "Because fat is ugly."

Aziraphale shook his head, and Famine was surprised to see a smile forming on his lips. He chuckled, and looked up at Famine kindly. "Different people find different things beautiful, my dear."

—

The second time they discussed the topic was one evening in an Italian restaurant, when Aziraphale looked at Famine curiously across the table and asked, "Do you _ever_ eat, my dear?"

Famine shook his head, pushing his full plate closer to the angel. "No."

"Not at all?" Aziraphale looked rather concerned. The idea of never eating probably terrified him, Famine thought with amusement. "Is it because you don't like eating or because you don't want to gain weight?"

"Both," Famine said.

The angel looked rather confused that anyone could dislike food. "Both?"

"Well, I mean, I guess I don't mind the _taste_ of food," Famine clarified. "That's sort of enjoyable, I guess. But it's really not worth what comes with it. Gaining weight is… well, for me it's out of the question."

Aziraphale looked at him gently. "You do realize you're extremely thin, my dear. You could gain quite a bit of weight and _still_ be thin."

Famine shook his head firmly. "You don't understand. It's not like humans, who just want to be attractive for somebody"—he thought of Aziraphale, and of Crowley—"or want to fit into a smaller clothing size. I _have_ to be thin. I have to be the _thinnest_. I can't have any fat on me at _all_." He looked the angel seriously in the eyes. "Do you get it now?"

"To be honest, no, I don't, really." Aziraphale looked even more worried now. "Is there some kind of rule about this, my dear? Do you _have_ to be so thin to be Famine?"

"I don't know that there's a Horseperson handbook lying around anywhere," Famine replied with a sharp laugh. "It's really just practicality. I can't convince humans to starve themselves if I don't look like I'm starving too."

Aziraphale chewed thoughtfully on his pasta. "So it's about work, then, is it?"

"No, not really," Famine shot back irritably. Did Aziraphale have to try to categorize everything into such black-and-white boxes? It wasn't that simple. There were layers to things. There wasn't _one_ reason he had to be thin. He was _Famine_. He just _had_ to. And he didn't hate the taste of food, he didn't hate the actual eating, but he _hated_ knowing he'd eaten, hated gaining weight, hated everything that came with food to the point where he hated food as well. Not everyone was like the angel, who loved food and was fine being fat and all his interests lined up perfectly. Some people liked food—maybe not as much as the angel, but certainly a whole lot—and these people _wanted_ to be thin. So they had to make a _choice_ between their weight and eating and for Famine it the choice would always, always have to come back to being thin and the angel had it perfect and he didn't realize this and _it just wasn't fair._

"It's not just about work," Famine snapped. "I also don't want to be a hideous slob like you."

He only realized what he had said after he was done saying it.

Aziraphale put down his fork.

Famine stared.

"So," said Aziraphale. "So that's what you think. That everyone who's not starving himself to death is some kind of disgusting pig."

Famine recalled the words he had spoken to Crowley over the phone, what felt like so long ago. He felt himself sinking slowly into a hole he didn't know if he could ever resurface from. "I… no, it's not… you don't understand."

"Oh, of course I do, my dear." With unmistakable bitterness dripping from his tone, Aziraphale did something Famine never thought he would see in six thousand years. The angel put his hands on the edge of his hall-full plate and pushed it firmly away. "Fat is unattractive, as is enjoying food. That's what you think. That's what everyone thinks. That's what everyone's been telling me for years."

It was all becoming so confused in Famine's head. Why, of all the times he'd mocked the angel's weight, did Aziraphale care _now_? He wanted to deny it, to tell Aziraphale that he didn't find fat unattractive in the least, but—he _did_. Fat was _disgusting_. The angel was fat and it was disgusting and he had just succeeded in making him stop eating, and wasn't that what he had wanted to do all along? Aziraphale had stopped eating. He'd made _Aziraphale_ stop eating.

Shouldn't that have been the ultimate prize? Shouldn't he be _proud_?

No. Because starvation was beautiful, and he would always find starvation beautiful. But what he would also always find beautiful was the happiness on the angel's face as he ate, that kindness, that warmth in those eyes. And if the angel had to be sort of fat to be so happy, well, then…

Then he didn't want the angel to starve.

Famine realized suddenly that he cared about him. He cared about Aziraphale more than he cared about spreading famine.

He wondered if Aziraphale cared about him more than he cared about food.

Famine pushed the plate deliberately back in Aziraphale's direction. Aziraphale slowly raised an eyebrow. "Well, yeah," Famine admitted. "That's what I think. I mean, I'm Famine. Of course I think fat is awful and thin is beautiful. But not thin like most people mean. _Deathly _thin. I like watching humans _starve_."

"I'm aware," Aziraphale sniffed, tone cold.

"But you do realize it would do no good for me to starve you, right?" Famine went on insistently. "It's not like you can die. So what would be the point?"

Aziraphale gradually turned back to face him. "I'd be thin. Deathly thin, as you said. Wouldn't that be an achievement of some kind?"

"No." Famine struggled to come up with the words. Each one felt so new and strange to him. "No, I don't want that."

Aziraphale looked at him square-on, expression hard. "Then what _do_ you want?"

Neither of them were really surprised when Famine kissed him. In a way, it was inevitable. Ineffable.

Famine could still taste the pasta sauce in Aziraphale's mouth. It wasn't unpleasant, really. And he had more important things on his mind.

They broke away after a breathless moment, and Aziraphale offered a small smile. Famine pushed the plate towards him again, more adamantly this time. "Eat. I know you want it. You've been staring it at this whole conversation, and your stupid wistful looks have been making me sick."

Aziraphale chuckled to himself and pulled the plate back in front of him. "And it would make you less sick if I ate it?"

"Yes," Famine said simply.

Aziraphale didn't need telling twice.

After he finished Famine's dinner but before the desserts arrived, Aziraphale started chuckling. When Famine cocked an eyebrow at him, he supplied, "I was just thinking about how you're only the second person who's ever made me reconsider my weight, even if it was just for a moment. I'm almost wondering if that was your intention all along."

"Crowley did tell me that it would be impossible to get you to diet," Famine replied, a bit of pride indeed seeping into his tone. "I suppose I've done the impossible then. Or, almost done it, anyway."

Aziraphale smiled. "I daresay you gave me a shorter spell of doubt than he did, my dear, but somehow I feel like you'll enjoy your achievement more."

Achievement. And what had Famine achieved? He should have been laughing at the innocent joke, but something else occurred to him instead. "You said you were… in love with Crowley, when you wanted to diet for him," he said slowly, awkwardly. "Does that mean now you're…?"

Almost shyly, Aziraphale nodded. "And by chance are you reconsidering, my dear, that time when you said you'd never been in love?"

Famine's heart promptly melted. "I… yes, I'm… reconsidering that," he replied, keeping a straight face. "Certainly reconsidering."

Aziraphale beamed. And that, Famine realized, was something that doesn't really change with weight. Fat or thin, he would always love the angel's smile.

—

They left the restaurant together, hand in hand: one hand pudgy, the other thin. The night was dark, but everything looked more beautiful, now.

"Thank you very much for dinner, my dear," Aziraphale said, ever polite, as Famine dropped him off outside the bookshop door. "One of these days perhaps I'll even get you to join me."

Famine made a big show of rolling his eyes. "Let's not get carried away. Just because I let you be a pig doesn't mean you're ever going to get me to eat."

"One bite isn't going to hurt you, my dear," Aziraphale insisted.

"I'm sure that's what you tell yourself every time you take one," Famine murmured. With every sentence, the two had drifted physically closer until now he was speaking the words basically into the angel's mouth. Then they moved closer still, and Famine kissed him.

Aziraphale seemed unwilling to truly pull away, and the moment their lips broke apart he wrapped Famine in a warm, surprisingly comfortable hug. Famine was enveloped by soft arms and soft stomach, and it struck him that maybe that was one perk of dating someone a bit on the larger side. He could always count on a good hug.

And as he walked back to the car, watching the angel's plump form wave him cheerfully off, Famine found himself not disgusted by that plumpness in the least. He'd spent six thousand years hating fat with a fierce passion, and it was honestly a relief to consider doing anything else. Preaching the same tune for six thousand years got a bit tedious sometimes. And anyway, hate was very often quite close to love.

On any account, Famine decided, he much preferred a smiling round angel to a miserable thin one.

He climbed into his sleek black car and started up the motor. Aziraphale really had given him so much, he was beginning to realize. Perhaps the next time they went out he should give him a gift in return. This process was all so new and exciting. What was it that humans usually gave their lovers? Cards? Flowers?

Perhaps he'd buy Aziraphale a box of chocolates.


End file.
